Unanswered Questions
by brookyss36
Summary: 6 months later, John Watson is still trying to cope with his friend's death and the appearance of an old enemy definately isn't making the healing process any easier. If anything, it's making it much harder and causing John to question everything that happened to Sherlock and everything he saw. And it's these unanswered questions that may end up costing John his life. First Fic!:)
1. Chapter 1

**This is my very first fanfiction. Ever. Hopefully I did alright:)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, blah, blah, blah.**

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John Watson screamed Sherlock's name, the cold air sending shivers down his spine. His blood ran cold at the realization of what was about to unfold before him.

Sherlock was standing on the edge of a very tall building, dangerously tall. John then watched Sherlock's body slowly lean forward, arms outstretched to his sides, as he plummeted towards the stony sidewalk below.

He watched with horror for what seemed like eternity until he saw his friend hit the ground. It couldn't be true. He tried calling Sherlock's name but no sound came out. Sherlock wasn't moving; _he can't be dead, he can't be dead, _John thought to himself.

He was running, running as fast as he could towards his friend's motionless body, still in utter disbelief at what his eyes just witness.

A bicycle side-swept him and, as he hit the ground, he felt like he was dying; his whole world was crashing down around him and his body ached all over, inside and out.

He got up slowly and made his way towards Sherlock's body which was now surrounded by a group of people. He staggered through the crowd and feebly reached out for Sherlock's wrist; people were trying to pull him away but he wouldn't let them. He was completely unaware of anything else around him; his focus was on his friend. He held on to Sherlock's wrist and waited to feel a pulse, to feel ebbing life from his friend's body but none came, just the ice cold realization that his friend was dead.

This couldn't be true. Not him. Not Sherlock. Not his best friend who now lie dead and broken before him.

Why...

John woke with a start, letting out a scream that pierced the silent night air; his t-shirt was clinging to his skin with sweat and his breathing was laborious. Sweat saturated his brow and he was on the verge of tears. He stared into the pitch black space around him attempting to clear his mind but the dream seemed too real; it seemed like it had just happened all over again.

That day still haunted him and, though it had happened nearly 6 months ago, it had consumed his dreams every night since. Almost every waking moment involved thoughts and memories of Sherlock and how much he missed his best friend.

He slowly sat up in his bed and looked at his clock on his bedside table; it was 3 a.m. _Mine as well get up,_ John thought; he was quite accustomed to being awake at this time of the morning; it was his nightly ritual. He'd usually wake up from the same nightmare, get up, make some toast and drink a glass of water, and watch television until he passed out on the couch. He slowly pulled the covers off and gradually made his way to the edge of his bed, taking a moment to sit there with his feet dangling off the side of his bed and his face resting in the palm of his hands. He took several deep, shaky breaths, trying to subdue the fierce emotional reaction he was beginning to have from his dream, before he finally got the motivation to stand up.

John didn't even notice that there was a man sitting in a chair in a dark corner of his bedroom. He didn't notice until the man cleared his throat and said, "Hello, Mr. Watson. Having some bad dreams tonight, are we?"

John froze where he stood, his back facing the intruder. His eyes were wide with shock; that voice...he knew that voice from somewhere but he couldn't quite pinpoint it. How could he have let his guard down so easily and not even noticed someone sneaking into his bedroom? He cursed himself for not being as alert as he should've been, as he used to be... He tried to recollect where he kept his hand gun or any sort of weapon. It had been so long since he'd used his gun, since he rarely left his flat for anything anymore, and, with much frustration, he couldn't even remember where it was anymore.

"You know, breaking into your flat was loads easier than I thought it'd be," The mystery man said lightly. "It must have something to do with your precious Sherlock going splat on the sidewalk, eh?"

John felt his face flush red with anger and abruptly turned around and made a run at the intruder. He had his fist raised, ready for attack when he came face to face with the barrel of a gun and stopped abruptly, fist still raised and his anger unwavering; his whole body was shaking with rage.

"You really should gain some self control, Doctor," the intruder sneered, his face now slightly visible to John, "I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't approve; If he were still alive, that is." He said the last few words with a smirk which John could now see clearly; his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could barely make out the lower portion of the intruder's face. It made his blood boil.

"It is a tragedy. About your friend, I mean." The intruder tried to sound sincere. "I can't imagine how it must have been to watch him jump. Just horrifying...If all that is really true that is." The intruder's tone changed to very serious and all traces of sarcasm were gone. He waited for John's reaction.

John didn't know what the intruder was getting at, but he was not going to play some twisted game that involved Sherlock's death.

John just stood there staring into the gun and then into the still mysterious, shadowy face of the intruder. "What do you want?" He said with a bored voice, raised fist falling to his side, and trying his best to cover-up the fear and anger rising further up inside of him.

"I don't think that's any concern of yours quite yet, but you'll find out soon enough."

John saw the intruders eyes flash to something behind John and, before he could react, he suddenly felt two pairs of strong hands grab his arms, felt a rag pressed to his nose and mouth, and his arms being pulled roughly behind him. His world was going black and the two pairs of strong hands holding him suddenly let go, causing him to fall towards the hard floor. He tried to put his arms in front of him to ease the fall but couldn't, they were tied behind his back. He hit the floor with a thud, trying to regain his focus and fighting the urge to pass out, and rolled to his side, groaning; his vision was slowly fading. He felt a warm liquid on the part of his head that hit the ground and the last thing he saw before he passed out was the smiling face of the intruder staring intently at him: Sebastian Moran.

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**Thanks for reading! Hopefully I will get the next chapter up by next week. Wonder what Sebastian Moran is up to. Hmm... Until next time! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter's a bit short, but I'm going to be busy for a while so I figured I'd post it anyways. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: The usual. I don't own.**

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John slowly opened his groggy eyes and was met with a sharp pain from the wound on his head which was slowly bleeding down his face. He realized that he was in a very dimly lit room and was sitting on a metal chair. He tried to move his hands to wipe the blood off of his face but couldn't, they were tied behind him; he figured as much. He then tried moving his legs, tied as well. Perfect. He squinted as he looked into the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling and tried to recollect his thoughts and remember what happened, how he got there. It suddenly all came flooding back to him; Sherlock falling, dead, his nightmares, Moran...

He was suddenly overcome with a state of panic. All traces of the normally composed John Watson were now gone. He struggled with all of strength against his bonds. He had to get away because this was not going to end well for him if he didn't. He tried with no avail and let his head drop with a groan escaping from his lips; he stared blankly at the dark cement floor. He closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind and regain his composure. He needed to remain calm if he was going to figure a way out of this situation. He looked around the room and tried to figure out where he was but the dark room left little for his mind to deduce. He figured it was most likely an abandoned warehouse of some sorts.

His deductions were cut short when he suddenly heard movement behind the large steel door directly across from him, putting his senses on full alert and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Someone was coming in. He struggled to maintain his wits and keep his breathing steady as Sebastian Moran opened the large, creaky door and walked into the room. He was flanked by two rather large, ugly-looking henchmen, both looking equally intimidating and dressed in black suits.

Moran walked to John and stood directly in front of him with an ugly grin spreading across his face. John could feel unmistakable fear but tried his best to not let it show on his face. He was absolutely determined to be brave even though he felt like a complete coward at that moment.

He could feel his heartbeat quicken as he saw the one of the two henchman walk and stand behind John.

"Hope everything's to your liking, doctor," Moran said with complete fake sincerity as he looked around the dark room. "I really tried to make you as comfortable as possible."

John stared fervently at the floor, not saying a word.

John saw, out of the corner of his eye, Moran motioning to the henchmen standing behind John. John held back a nervous whimper that was fighting to escape from his mouth.

"Relax, doctor." Apparently John wasn't concealing his emotions as well as he thought.

To his surprise, the henchmen bent down and untied John's legs and then his hands; he was completely free of his bonds.

"Now, I'm sure you know much more about your friend's little charade he played on the top of St. Barts," Moran began walking slowly around John, "and I would like nothing than for you to inform me about that."

A look of utter confusion and desperation appeared on John's face. "I dun-dunno what you're talking about."

"I figured you'd say as much." He said with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this or not, but Jim Moriarty put a bullet through his own brain before your friend's little stunt." He said this with utter contempt and spat the last word's in John's face; he was now looming over him with a sinister look. John sat with his fists clenched; he dare not do anything rash at this point. If he did, he was sure these two henchmen would be on him before he could even throw a punch.

"Now, normally, Holmes would be sitting in that chair you're in, paying for what happened to Jim but, since he's nowhere to be found, you'll have to do, for now anyways."

Moran walked over to the second henchmen who was, John noticed for the first time, holding a pair of black leather gloves.

Moran took the gloves, slowly slipped them on, and walked back to stand in front of John. He motioned to the henchmen behind John. John was suddenly pulled roughly onto his feet and the chair he had just been sitting on was thrown into the corner of the room with a loud crash.

Silence settled on them and the single light bulb lazily swung back and forth in the middle of the two military men, causing dark shadows to play across the room. John thought he could hear his heart beating out of his chest, he did not like where this seemed to be going.

"We're going to fight this out, like men." Moran stared intently at John, excitement in his voice. "Here's the deal: if I win you tell me everything you know about Sherlock's apparent death," John began to stutter something in protest until he felt a gun jam into his back, "and, if you win, well, if you win we'll discuss your options later."

The two henchman suddenly walked to the door and stood like statues in front of it; _no possible escape, _John thought to himself with dread swelling up inside of him.

John's mind was racing with escape plans when suddenly, without warning, Moran sprang at John, tackling him to the hard cement floor. John's head wound was a definite disadvantage; his reaction time was slower than normal. A day earlier and Moran wouldn't have taken John down as easily.

Moran unleashed a relentless hail of punches at John and suddenly his entire body was crying, screaming out with pain. He tried to fight back at first, but there was only so much he could do with Moran on top of him and throwing punch after punch at him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours and hours of torture, Moran stopped and stood up staring down at John with a look of satisfaction.

John lay on the ground, his breathing was uneven and he was fighting to stay conscious. He had several deep gashes on his face and sported a bloody nose, lip, and several nasty looking bruises which were beginning to form all over his body.

Moran dusted himself off and straightened out his black suit before savagely kicking John hard in the stomach; Moran heard a satisfying crack as a rib broke. John let out a strangled cry and rolled over onto his side. Each breath that he let out was preceded by a pathetic whimper. He squeezed his eyes shut; he couldn't believe the situation he was in right now. He thought all of this 'being in danger stuff' was a thing of the past. At least, when he was in sticky situations in the past, he could always count on Sherlock to come to the rescue before anything life threatening presented itself. But now he was all alone with no one to save him.

He clutched his stomach and lay on the cold cement floor in the fetal position, praying that the worst was over.

Moran walked around John and knelt, coming face to face with him.

"So, where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"I-I, dunno," John stammered; his words came out in a slur from pain. "He's d-dead. I watched. Him. I watched him. He fell. I f-felt his pulse. Nothing." His head was swimming and his whole body felt like it was on fire.

Moran stood up with a sigh. "Very well, you leave me with no choice, doctor."

Moran walked over to the two henchmen guarding the door and turned to John, "I'll let you sleep on it for a while but, when I come back you'd better be willing to talk. It'd be in your best interest." Moran opened the door, flipped a light switch off, and he and his henchmen left the room. John was suddenly engulfed in darkness and left wishing for death to come and have mercy on him.

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**Moran's intentions are starting to be revealed...how's John going to survive?! :O**

**Thanks for the review and follow! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the reviews and of the follows! You guys are awesome! **

**Sorry for the LONG wait. I've been super busy with school and life, blah, blah, blah. Anyways, this chapter's a bit short but I'm going to try my best to update it a bit more consistently/frequently.**

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John was lying very still on the cold floor, his breathing was coming out in ragged gasps and his rib cage cried painfully with every breath. His eyes fluttered as he went in and out of consciousness, trying to regain control of himself and deduce the damage done. At least three broken ribs for sure, several gashes on his face, one over his right eye was bleeding quite heavily, bloody nose, and a split lip, John deduced. _At least it's nothing life threatening. Not yet anyways, _he thought to himself with dark amusement.

He vaguely wondered what Moran had meant about Sherlock, about his 'stunt' that he'd pulled off.

_Later,_ he thought to himself. _Right now I need to try to get out of here._

He painfully reached his arms out in front of him and tried crawling to the nearest wall. He nearly cried out from the horrible pain in his rib cage area. He tried again and managed to make to the wall and sit up, leaning against it and letting a not too quiet groan escape his lips. He gently brushed the blood oozing from the gash over his right eye and wiped it on his dirt and blood stained pajamas, taking short, painful gasps of breath.

John slowly looked above him, his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, and saw that the ceiling was very high, which helped to prove that he was indeed in an abandoned warehouse. He looked around for anything to help him escape and noticed, with a start, that there was a small, boarded up window on the wall to the right of him. His heartbeat quickened as he thought of escaping. _But, _John's logical mind reasoned, _how do you expect to pry off wood from a window, climb through the window, and crawl to god knows where and how far in order to get help? _The faint hope that had quickly blossomed in John's mind was slowly fading away as he realized the impossibility what he was thinking of doing. Moran and his henchmen could be back at any minute. He shivered to think what they'd do if they caught him trying to escape. _Do you think you'll be any better off if you don't try? _John battled back and forth for a brief moment before he tried to pull himself to his feet. He was shaky and the pain was nearly unbearable, but he did it as he stood with his hands on the wall to steady himself. He gradually stumbled to the front of the window, all the while he edged along the wall in order to keep his balance.

The top of the window came to about the top of John's head and the bottom to John's chest. It was heavily boarded with wood by large nails and it looked like someone had done quite a poor job; no doubt the handy work of one of Moran's dull henchmen. A wry smile tugged at the edge of John's mouth. _I can do this, _he thought to himself; the hope was back.

He then began trying to pry the wood off of the window, board by board. His hands and fingers started to bleed before long and each board he pried off brought a wave of pain through his battered body; but he kept pulling and tugging on the boards, even though the pain threatened to pull him to unconsciousness with each passing minute. He only had two boards left to pry off, covering the lower half of the window which let in a pleasant blue glow from the moon above, when he faintly heard footsteps outside the steel door across the room.

A sense of dread swelled up within him and he let out a groan as he desperately tried to pry off the remaining boards. The footsteps were getting louder and now he could hear muffled voices. He didn't hear Moran's voice and then he made out the two henchmen's voices; they sounded like they were arguing.

One more board left.

"No, he said to pay Watson a visit first and then go pick up the sniper rifle",John could faintly make out one of the henchmen's voices.

"No, no, no," The other one said, "he told us to get him the rifle and then pay Watson a visit."

It sounded like the two henchmen were arguing right outside his door. _Keep arguing, you idiots, _John thought to himself; he needed all the time he could get.

He was sweating profusely and his body was screaming with what felt like daggers racing through his body. He almost had the last board off, just one more side to pry loose.

Suddenly the voices stopped, and the familiar grinding sound of the steel door opening filled the room. The two henchmen slowly walked into the room, holding menacing looking chains and rope, only to find a pile of wooden boards littered on the floor and a cool breeze drifting through the open window.

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